


The Minor Art of Politesse

by Arevhat



Category: Farscape, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arevhat/pseuds/Arevhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was alien, Julian thought, but then so was she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Minor Art of Politesse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to The Jim Henson Company, and not to me. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and its characters belong to Paramount.  
> Setting: Between The Ugly Truth and A Clockwork Nebari for Farscape; whenever makes the most sense to you for DS9.
> 
> Written for the 2009 Terra Firma Beach Bash.  
> ____________

  
  
“Ah, no,” Garak said, and set his cup in its saucer with a decisive clink.  The tea sloshed against the rim but didn’t spill.  “I would advise you turn your attentions elsewhere, Doctor.  The young woman is entirely too much for you to handle.”

Julian Bashir chuckled over a bite of pastry.  “Which young woman would that be, Garak?”

“The one you presume to be composed of little more than fluff and cleavage.”

“Garak!”  Julian wiped a crumb from his lip with his thumb, more amused than indignant.  The woman in question  _was_  rather fluffy, with her downy white hair and tribble-esque fashions, and reminiscent in part(s) of Leeta.  “I presume no such thing.  I’m sure she’s as intelligent as she is lovely.”

Garak smiled, and sipped his tea.  

Julian lowered his voice and leaned towards the tailor.  “And were I interested, I am quite sure I could ‘handle’ her.”

“You’re interested,” Garak said.  “You’ve been salivating since she sauntered into the café.”

“Mere scientific curiosity.”  Julian was terse as he stirred another lump of sugar into his tea.  The way Garak pronounced words like  _salivating_  and  _sauntered_  threatened to make him blush; knowing that was Garak’s intention made actual blushing inevitable.  “I’ve not seen her species before.”  

“Ordinarily I would urge you to study such a delightful little discovery to your heart’s content,” Garak said, his smile belied by his somewhat serious tone,  “but it concerns me that  _she_  has been studying  _us_.”

“She has not,” Julian said, but he raised his cup to his mouth and considered the woman - who was now sucking slowly on her straw, her head tipped at a peculiar angle - in a more surreptitious manner than before.  Their eyes  _had_  met several times, but Julian would have described the fleeting contact less as studious and more as though he were a menu and she’d already eaten.  “I know I’m not the skilled…tailor you are, Garak, but I’m hardly oblivious.”

“She’s very good,” Garak said.  “As I said, too much for you.”

“But not,” Julian said, his eyes narrowing, “too much for you.”  

“Of course not.”  Garak smiled in a way that showed too many of his teeth.  “As  _you_  said, I am skilled.”

Julian reached for another pastry, careful to choose Garak’s favorite, and took a large bite to hide his own smile.  “Perhaps she’s been waiting for someone,” he said.  He had noticed that while her dark eyes roamed the café, momentarily pausing here or there, they were always drawn back to the door.  “Perhaps she’s been stood up by an inconsiderate cad.”

“Perhaps you haven’t been listening to me.”

“Perhaps she could use a distraction.”  They certainly could, Julian thought.  Scientific curiosities aside this dreary commerce planet on the wrong side of the wormhole was testing his patience, the wait for shuttlecraft repairs interminable.  “We’ll handle her together.”

“Why, Doctor!”  Garak’s eyes twinkled with what could only be described as glee as Julian choked on both pastry and embarrassment.  “I believe that’s an  _excellent_  plan.”

*

Fortunately, Julian was able to clear his airway with a cough.  Unfortunately, once he started coughing he found he couldn’t stop.  

Garak thumped him on the back with more zeal than was strictly necessary.  An elderly gentleman on his way to the facilities advised still more zeal.  The object of their gossip appropriated a glass of water from a passing server, pulled a chair up to their table, and laid a hand on Julian’s knee.  

Julian gulped the water with gratitude and a glimmer of suspicion.

“Are you okay?”  She peered at him.  The combined effect of her position, movement, and clothing made it difficult for Julian to peer anywhere but at her breasts, and he coughed again.  

“I’m a doctor,” he said, as though that had any bearing whatsoever on his ability to breathe edibles in place of oxygen.  She smiled and squeezed his knee and something in her smile reminded him of Garak’s.  Julian’s disconcertion was coupled with the thrill of realizing there  _was_  a game afoot.

“Doctor Bashir,” he said, and smiled too, his most debonair smile.  He raised her gloved hand to his lips.  He knew the gesture was melodramatic outside of his holonovels, but he’d rather her remember this than the coughing fit.  “Doctor Julian Bashir.”

“Chiana,” she said.  She seemed duly charmed, the faintest blue tinge coloring her cheeks as if on cue.  “Is your friend a doctor too?”

“I’m afraid I am but a simple tailor, my dear, with a simple name.”  When the Cardassian kissed her hand Chiana’s mouth quirked, losing its artifice, and in that moment Julian thought her lovelier than before.  “I am Garak.”

“Pleasure,” Chiana said.

“Yes,” Garak said.   

“Ahem.”  Julian proffered a plate of pastry.  “Please, Chiana, join us.”

She picked a small slice of citrusen from amidst the sweets and licked the sour flesh with the tip of her tongue, then popped the fruit, rind and all, into her mouth.  It was alien, Julian thought, but then so was she.  

“Are you meeting someone?” Julian inquired.

“Yes,” Chiana said, and leaned towards him.  Her breath was warm against his neck, her hand decidedly higher than his knee.  “You.”

“So you are,” Julian said, with what he considered remarkable composure.  “Tea?”


End file.
